


Call My Name

by PhoenixFoxfire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFoxfire/pseuds/PhoenixFoxfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing so dear as the many ways one's lover says one's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Many Ways You Say My Name

Happy

Sherlock never thought he would ever hear anyone say his name in a happy tone of voice. But John did not live up to expectations. When the detective finally managed to brew a decent cup of tea, he handed it to the doctor, who looked up with an expression of surprise on his face. It turned to one of suspicion as he asked, "Did you put anything in this?" When the detective shook his head, curls flying every which way, John smiled and said, "Thank you, Sherlock." The taller man nodded and sat down next to John to watch a football match on the telly. As John's fingers reached over to entwine with his, Sherlock was riveted by the gentle upcurl of lips gracing John's features, and he mused that yes, indeed, they were happy.

Nervous

John was pacing back and forth through the flat, fiddling with his cream-coloured jumper and repeatedly smoothing his hands over his sandy hair. Sherlock rolled his eyes before saying, "Stop pacing, Watson, there's really nothing to be worried about." "Easy for you to say," the doctor muttered. Just then there was a knock on the door. John froze. "Sherlock," he swallowed dryly, "What if she doesn't like me?" "Nonsense, dear," the curly-haired man replied, grabbing John's hand. "She'll like you." They went to the door hand in hand, opening it to reveal an elegant woman dressed in a deep plum dress. Her silver hair was straight, falling to her shoulders, and the way she carried herself reminded John of a regal, graceful swan. "Mummy," Sherlock rumbled. "Hello, darling," the woman greeted her son, and then turned to John. She smiled reassuringly at him and said, "You must be John. I'm Annamae Holmes. It's quite a pleasure to meet you." As they shook hands, John relaxed, and Sherlock thought to himself that there had been no reason for the man to be nervous in the first place.

Afraid

They had been chasing a suspect when they had gotten themselves lost in a pitch black tunnel underground. Noises seemed to come from all around them, and they had no idea where the suspect had gotten to. As they turned about, blindly trying to take in their surroundings, John grabbed onto Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock," he whispered, terrified. The dank air made it seem as if the walls were closing in on them, and he had never been one for tight spaces. Sherlock's heart went out to his partner, and he pulled him into a tight hug. "Don't worry, love. There's no need to be afraid. We'll get out of here," he reassured the shorter man. John only nodded into his chest as he took comfort in the detective.

Annoyed

"Sherlock." John's voice served as a warning as the dark-haired man entered the flat. Sherlock grimaced, wondering what he had done this time. He found John in the kitchen, standing next to the open oven containing what appeared to be the remnants of...a foot maybe? Oh yes. Definitely a foot. He had placed it there for safe-keeping after testing it with some chemicals, and by the looks-and smell-of it, John had turned on the oven without realising what was in it. The taller man glanced sheepishly at his flatmate, who only said, "You either clean it or buy us a new oven" before stalking away, annoyed with the experimenter. Sherlock opted for the latter.

Sexy

It was one thirteen in the morning and Sherlock was sitting in his chair, playing his violin, trying to think of an answer that was just so damned elusive he'd been stumped for over three hours. He paused his playing for a moment, and was about to resume when he noticed John leaning against the doorframe, dressed in a vest and red boxers. The older man gazed at the violin player from underneath his lashes. Sherlock watched, entranced, as John slowly walked over to his chair, purposefully leaning over the detective as he placed his hands on the chair on either side of Sherlock's head. He slowly brought his lips down to softly, sensually mesh with the other man's, nibbling gently on his bottom lip and sucking on the tongue so readily proffered to him. He pulled back gently after a few moments, chuckling as he saw the detective's glazed eyes. John bent so his lips touched Sherlock's left ear, his breath ghosting over it as he whispered, "Come to bed, Sherlock" causing the man to shiver. As John grabbed his hand, gently leading him to their bedroom, Sherlock gave up on finding the answer (something only John could get him to do), and decided he would much rather spend some time with his adorable-but-somehow-incredibly-sexy boyfriend.

Begging

When they made love it was always different. Sometimes it was drawn-out and torturous, sometimes it was rough and fast, and sometimes it was soft and sweet and gentle, with each taking his time to explore the other's body. No matter how it was, one of Sherlock's favourite parts was when John would let out a breathy moan of "Sherlock", begging the lithe man for more, whatever it may be. His tone would speak of lust and such a complete utter need for the detective that he would happily give the other man whatever he wanted just to hear it again. It was at these passionate times that Sherlock knew not only did John want and need him, but he wanted and needed John as well.

Angry

Sherlock waltzed in the door humming to himself out of sheer delight. He was practically bouncing as he hung up his coat. And that's when he saw John glaring at him, arms crossed across his chest. "Where the hell have you been, Sherlock?" he growled. "...Out?" Sherlock said meekly. John flung his arms outward. "For five bloody days?" he yelled. "I come home, you're gone, there's no note, your phone's here so I can't contact you at all, and after five days of driving me mad with worry, all you have to say is 'out'?" Sherlock reached out to touch the doctor's arm, but John wrenched it away, muttering a "piss off" as he stomped to their room, slamming the door behind him, leaving Sherlock to wonder how on earth he was to placate his angry lover.

Apologetic

Sherlock sat with his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He looked up as he heard the bedroom door swing open quietly. John stood in the doorway, looking a bit calmer and more understanding and just a bit apologetic. The two men stared at each other before Sherlock broke the silence. "John...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that without telling you." John walked forward to kneel in front of Sherlock. "I'm sorry too, Sherlock. I shouldn't have shouted at you. Just...don't ever worry me like that again," he pleaded. Sherlock leant forward and grabbed John's hand, stroking the knuckles gently. "I won't," he said, leaning his forehead against John's. "Promise?" John asked. Sherlock looked straight into John's tawny eyes. "I promise," he said before kissing the other man chastely.

Loving

John was sitting at the table, typing away on his laptop. Behind him, Sherlock had been entering and exiting the room at random intervals, seeming almost...nervous? After about the twelfth time this had happened, John decided to speak up. "Are you alright?" he asked without looking up from his laptop. He heard the footsteps behind him stop, heard a deep inhalation of breath. Suddenly his laptop snapped shut and he felt two warm arms surround him. Sherlock rested his chin on John's shoulder, bringing a small black velvet box into view. The shorter man gasped, backing a bit more into Sherlock's embrace as the taller man opened the box to reveal a simple silver band. "Marry me?" Sherlock whispered softly into John's ear. There was a moment of silence before John got out of his chair, turned, and all but threw his arms around Sherlock's neck. He smiled brilliantly, eyes sparkling with love, and Sherlock ordered his mind to capture the beautiful expression on his partner's face forever. "Yes, Sherlock, yes I'll marry you," John answered with a quiet, radiant joy. As he put the ring on his left hand, he saw the inside was engraved with Loving you is my greatest deduction. He buried his face in the detective's neck, nuzzling it as Sherlock smiled and kissed the top of his head.

Silent

The ceremony to officiate their civil union was over, and the few guests they had invited had finally gone home. They stared at each other from opposite ends of the flat, John slowly walking from the door towards Sherlock. Sherlock reached out with his left hand, now adorned with an engraved ring that read Love heals all wounds. John grabbed it, marvelling at how their fingers aligned so perfectly. Both men wore dazzling smiles, and Sherlock said softly, "We're married, John," to which the shorter man replied, "Yes, we are," and his expression spoke volumes, saying I'm so very happy and This is actually real and Oh, god, I love you, Sherlock. And Sherlock knew his expression mirrored John's. They leant in simultaneously for a kiss, knowing that no more need be said.


	2. They All Sound So Sweet To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reverse of the previous chapter. New situations from John's pov.

Happy

John puttered about the kitchen, getting out mugs and plates and tea and all manner of things required for breakfast. It was a day where he pulled out two of everything, Sherlock having finally decided (well, John did really, and Sherlock couldn't say no to John) that he needed to eat something. Sherlock sat in his armchair, scanning the newspaper for anything that could possibly be interesting (and finding nothing). John opened the fridge to find a new container of milk, something he most definitely hadn't purchased himself as he'd had another row with the machine. He walked out the kitchen and looked at his flatmate, asking, "Did you buy milk?" "Yes, John" came Sherlock's response. Without looking up from the paper, Sherlock knew John was smiling, pleased that the detective had made the small, uncharacteristic gesture, and the knowledge that he could make the shorter man happy brought a smile to his own face. "Thank you," John said before returning to breakfast preparations.

Nervous

It was late in the evening, and John had just sat down with a nice hot cup of tea. He turned on some crap telly, vaguely aware of his flatmate being uncharacteristically un-Sherlocky; that is to say his flatmate was fidgeting about in his armchair, glancing at John quickly every few seconds. His hands restlessly played with the fabric of his suit jacket, making the occasional swipe through his dishevelled curls. His feet were drumming a faint tattoo on the floor, and his breathing was rather fast and shallow. He seemed nervous, but John thought he couldn't be, as the great Sherlock Holmes was never nervous. Suddenly, Sherlock bounded out of his chair and turned the telly off. As he turned to face John, the shorter man gave a soft noise of protest, which was cut off by a soft pair of lips descending on his own. It was brief, over within seconds, and then Sherlock pulled back. For a few moments the detective cast his eyes on everything except the man he'd just kissed. His eyes finally settled on John, and he took a deep breath before mumbling, "I love you, John." His voice didn't break, but his trembling hands on John's cheeks betrayed his feelings. John's only reply was a brilliant smile before pulling Sherlock into another kiss.

Afraid

After a dangerous case, Sherlock found himself sitting next to John in a hospital. John was unconscious, hooked up to a beeping machine. His abdomen was covered in gauze, masking the deep stab wound and absorbing any excess blood seeping from the wound. Logically he knew the injury wasn't fatal, but his heart had been constricted from the moment he saw John fall to the ground. Feeling like a lost child, he held John's hand, afraid of losing him. Soft whispered words emanated from his mouth, mainly, "John, John, please wake up, I need you." A tear ran down his face, upset that he hadn't been able to protect his lover, and soon he was sobbing into the sheets by John's side, desperate for that moment when the doctor would wake up.

Annoyed

John was washing out a mug for a cup of tea when Sherlock came striding into the kitchen with a quick, "John, what the hell are you doing?" John looked at him, saying "I'm making a cup of tea, fancy one?" Sherlock just glared. "No, I don't, and I meant what are you doing with that mug, that specific mug? There was an experiment in there, you've just ruined the entire thing!" John rolled his eyes, looking unimpressed. "There's a bloody experiment in every single one of my mugs, I chose the one that looked the least likely to kill me even after I washed it out." Sherlock flounced to the couch, annoyed and seemingly ignoring all of John's words as he muttered "Now I'm going to have to start from the beginning."

Begging

"John, I need something!" Sherlock was literally on his knees, begging John for "a case, or a cigarette, or hell, we can even play Cluedo again!" John continued reading the paper, skimming through articles and brushing his flatmate off with, "I can't magic you a case out of nowhere, I'm not giving you any cigarettes, and we are most definitely not playing Cluedo." Sherlock whined, throwing himself into his armchair and drawing his knees up to his chest like a petulant toddler, albeit a tall gangly one. John sighed quietly to himself, mentally begging Lestrade to call with a really gruesome murder.

Sexy

Late in the afternoon, on a day when there was a lull between cases, Sherlock remembered his favourite way to relieve his boredom. He went to his room, stripping himself of his pyjamas and putting on a pair of bespoke black trousers and the shirt he knew John secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) referred to as 'the Purple Shirt of Sex'. He suavely made his way to the table where John was typing on his blog (in that cute, slow, two-fingered way that Sherlock secretly thought was endearing). He stood on opposite of John, spreading both hands on the table and leaning over his boyfriend. Making his voice as sexy as possible, lowering the normal pitch of his already deep baritone quality, he whispered, "John, I have a wonderful idea of what we can do." John looked up and swallowed audibly, and Sherlock smirked, knowing he was about to get exactly what he wanted.

Angry

Sherlock was frustrated, as he had no leads or ideas about where to go on the newest case. He paced angrily around the room, his mind working at the speed of light, but coming up with no answers. John laid a hand on his arm, opening his mouth to reassure the detective, but he barely got out the first syllable before Sherlock shook him off, seething out the words "Don't patronise me, John! In fact, it would be much better if you just shut your mouth and stopped talking." John looked at him, calm and stoic, but Sherlock could see the hurt in his eyes, and he felt the twinges of guilt. However, John merely turned around, walking out the door and to the park so the both of them could cool down.

Apologetic

When John came home, he was immediately assaulted by a very apologetic Sherlock. The detective raced to the door as soon as John opened it and wrapped his arms around the shorter man, mumbling a quiet "I'm sorry, John, I'm so, so sorry" into his ear. They stood there at the door, arms wrapped around each other in a tight embrace, Sherlock's face buried in the crook of John's neck. The taller man finally backed up a little, just enough to see John's face. He placed one hand on John's cheek, caressing it with his thumb. After a moment he spoke. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled. That was uncalled for and very childish of me." John merely smiled and kissed his lover gently.

Loving

Sherlock and John were cuddled up in bed, snuggling together after a long, strenuous day. John lay with his back to Sherlock's front, a long pale arm slung across his waist, pulling him as close as possible and holding him there. One of John's hands rested on top of Sherlock's on his stomach. They were content, breathing deeply, and satisfied from the day's events. Sherlock ran his free hand through John's dark blonde locks. Softly, without disturbing the peace, he whispered, "I love you, John, I always will. I love being here with you, just like this." John smiled, responding, "Me too," as Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his neck.

Silent

They were walking home after successfully solving a difficult case when Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's hand. Walking in silence, they each basked in the presence of the other, taking in the scenery. This was their life, solving crimes together, making love, cuddling together on the lazy days, putting up with each other's bad moods or silly quirks, occasionally fighting, but always ending up together in the end. John looked up at Sherlock, and the detective looked back, sharing a smile that said everything. They wouldn't have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! It's one of my favourites out of all the pieces I've written. Several things...a) I love pet names. This is why I have Sherlock calling John dear and darling. I personally just think it's adorable. And let's face it, the end was just downright cute and fluffy. It's meant to be that way. The afraid part is actually based on personal experience. Obviously I was not chasing criminals, but I have gotten lost in cold black tunnels and I am claustrophobic and I decided to make John so as well. Annamae is a shout out to my best mate, it's her middle name and I love it. And the engravings were just something fun I added. The statements on the rings are both meant to reflect their occupations, sort of, Sherlock being a detective (and deducing things) and John being a doctor (and healing things) Anyways...reviewers get responses and shout outs in my next ficcie. And a review on at least one of their stories. That motivate anyone? I'm thinking about doing another chapter of this, different situations and some different emotions (though I'd probably do some of the same ones), about how Sherlock says John's name. Thoughts?


End file.
